


White Wine, Bitter Sunlight

by fauxilya



Category: Divergent - All Media Types, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Divergent Fusion, Angst, Basically the candor interrogation from insurgent, But make it enjoltaire, Divergent AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29516790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauxilya/pseuds/fauxilya
Summary: ER Divergent AU. Enjolras was injected with truth serum and had a confession to make.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 7





	White Wine, Bitter Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victoriashadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriashadow/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Victoria! I love you sm xD

A bitter coldness stabbed into his veins, crawling beneath his skin and seeping into his muscles. There was nothing he could do in retaliation; those Erudite bastards had made sure of that. Enjolras felt his body stiffen as tendrils of serum twisted themselves around his nerves, effortlessly throwing him off guard, marching into his consciousness. He felt warm—giddy, even; his throat itched with the tiniest hint of absinthe, a painful whisper haunting his memory. He fought hard against the intrusion of chemicals, biting the inside of his cheeks and crossing his arms, fingers digging into his shoulders in a futile attempt to veer his traitorous mind back in control, no less helpless than the people of Pompeii as volcano ash swallow their city.

“No,” he growled through clasped teeth, “I c-c-can’t do this. ”

And with that, all the air left his lungs in a huff, not in relief but in an ultimate act of desperation.

The room was quiet—deathly, save for the collective breaths that would echo through the space from time to time.

“Come on, Enj,” muttered Courfeyrac, “just get it over with. ”

The truth was teetering on the tip of his tongue; kicking and screaming to be let out, a barreling storm on the brew.

“No.” His teeth were clattering; he was freezing all over, numbness spreading through his limbs. One word was all he could manage before darkness fell before his eyes, the glass cell where his interrogation took place blurring along with the faces of friends as well as enemies. Enjolras was left a lone figure in the inkiness of his own mind; the prisoner of his own will.

His last conscious thought was of two marvelous pools of green, the light in which undimmed by the daze of alcohol, that spoke volumes with their smiling serenity.

* * *

The charcoal sizzled as several drops of dark red made contact with the flame.

“Dauntless.” The Inspector announced in a flat tone, as if the only child of Erudite’s current leaders hadn’t just chosen a path of his own. Enjolras dropped his still bleeding hand to the side, lips drawn into a flat line, and gazed into the stainless marble of the ground as he continued his walk towards where the Dauntless, old and new, were arranged to be seated. He kept his head up in silent defiance, head spinning from a strange kind of ecstasy, having just casted his former identity aside and earned the liberty to realize his ideals.

A wave of whispers overcame the hall; Enjolras could easily imagine what people were likely gossiping about, and scowled out of habit. He could feel his best friend Combeferre’s eyes boring into his back, perhaps in disappointment over his betrayal. They had discussed this the previous day; Combeferre, as wise as he was always, suggested Enjolras hide in his own faction to escape prying eyes. Nevertheless, the latter did not take his friend’s advice for once, and made a potentially destructive decision on his own.

Enjolras did not regretted leaving his friends. It was not that he did not value their friendship, but his presence in their little group of three was growing awkward, anyways. Contrary to common beliefs, Enjolras was not completely oblivious to human feelings. He could tell that something precious was blooming between his two best friends, the smart Courfeyrac and resourceful Combeferre. Those movie nights they reluctantly invited him to, them urging always that he goes home first, meetings that they both requested leave from...And who was Enjolras to interfere? It seemed that it was, indeed, time for him to go, to take departure from his old way to leaving and start anew.

Moreover, the decision to transfer to dauntless was for the sake of his lifelong dream: to become an enforcer of laws and the guardian of justice. He was studious, having been raised so, but the new world doesn’t come out of classrooms and labs. The wealthy, elite way of life was against his very principles, which developed gradually in his young mind the more books he read. It was an old world he had left behind and swore to overthrow.

Sitting in the front were transfers like him, their wear ranging from red to grey; he picked his seat in the middle, making no effort to blend into the crowd as cheers erupted behind him. Several of his new mates were clapping on his shoulders, whistling and yelling congratulations at his head, until they were silenced by the knife-sharp gaze from the Inspector.

Somehow, at that moment, Enjolras believed that from these schoolchildren an army would emerge. An army that would bleed rivers for the coming of a new dawn.

* * *

The wind attacked in gusts, a sturdy force behind their backs, ruffling their hair and pulling at their clothes. The sky was closer than ever, a faded blue illuminated by the crisp light radiating from the glaring sun. Enjolras narrowed his eyes; from this angle, he could see the entirety of the city: buildings covered in glazed glass erected from the ruins, the vegetation among which lived Amity’s rural communities extended north, a large pact of grayish green stopping only at the food of the Fence, whose iron grids glittered bathing in morning glory, the usually scarring tar black now soaked in a golden splendor.

Underneath was the bottomless pit; his first test as an dauntless Initiate.

“Any volunteers?” Their guide, a pierced, menacing man, was saying. Almost all the transfers took a step back. Enjolras, on the other hand, never backed down from a challenge.

Calmly, he stepped forward. Sporadic applause echoed behind him.

“Guess I’ll follow Apollo’s example, then.” Irritated, Enjolras gazed back at his fellow Initiates, and saw a boy dressed in gray from head to toe, wearing an uncharacteristic Cheshire Cat grin, the forest green of his eyes the only spots of color on his pale face. Dark curls adorned his head, forming a strong contrast with his complexion.

The boy shrugged, “Well. I didn’t get your name on the train.”

“It’s Enjolras,” he bit out, overcome by a sudden urge to quarrel with this stranger: a totally out-of-character transfer from Abnegation. But then he felt the tension in the air and realized that the fighting could wait.

Enjolras spared the stranger one more annoyed glance, then walked to the edge of the concrete, and let himself fall.

* * *

Enjolras was reliving that falling, now; except that it was much longer, interminable, endless. He could feel his lips trembling; bolts of shivers shot him through. The pit from his memory was swirling eddy-like now, its sheer momentum sucking him into the suffocating mass of water.

_Help_ , a distant voice called. Cautiously, he turned his head to inspect the source.

One look at the crouched figure, and he whipped his head around, facing the fronting darkness.

“No,” he mustered, threading his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. “No.”

And the wind quieted down to a whisper around him. _Help._

* * *

The dark-haired boy grinned up at him.

_Grantaire_. Now Enjolras had learnt his name. Three days into the Initiation, and the weird Abnegation transfer had already proved his sole existence a bother. He had a whole collection of empty bottles under his assigned bed—Enjolras couldn’t even start to consider where he smuggled those in—tainting the dorm’s air with a permanent hint of absinthe. Two of the nights he didn’t return until small hours into the night, once stumbled into the room with a much soberer Eponine—the girl who added purple streaks to her hair the first day she got here—and the other time, he dropped at the door, clenching his stomach as he whined on the ground, waking up the whole dorm with the noise. The lack of sleep was beginning to get to Enjolras, making him more easily agitated than ever. So, when he snapped at Grantaire and told him harshly to put the bottle down, it couldn’t be counted as entirely his fault.

Grantaire only raised his bottle—what kind of alcoholic drank directly from the bottle?Was it even legal for teenagers their age to drink?—towards Enjolras, and said, “cheers” before draining it and let the bottle fall to the ground with a clatter.

It could be logically concluded, then, when the HQ paired them up for the next round of fighting, Enjolras was even secretly grateful for having a chance to punch him. He shouldn’t hold such grudge towards another individual, let alone one he only recently formed an acquaintance with—that he often reminded himself—but Grantaire managed to push all his buttons in the wrong way.

“Kinky.” Grantaire breathed, his voice audible to only the two of them. Enjolras felt himself flush; the tiniest hint of warmth crept onto his neck.

“Be serious.” Enjolras glowered, adding pressure to his grasp on his opponent’s arms, pinning him in place.

“I’m wild.” Grantaire smiled even bigger, a challenge flashing in his eyes.

He was a little dizzy from the blood rushing to his head—anger mixed with adrenaline, and—to his horror—a good amount of euphoria.

Enjolras punched him. In the jaw.

That meant that he had to let go of his hold on the other boy’s arms, giving him time to bounce off the ground and reclaim his position. But Grantaire only let out a small moan of pain, sparing a hand to rub at his throbbing face, a smirk insisting on his lips.

According to the rule, five seconds of one of them on their back was all that needed to decide a winner. But Enjolras felt least like one when he walked out of the ring, his head drooped, unaware of footsteps falling closely behind him.

* * *

Falling.

He was falling in a sticky kind of liquid, the smell of metal filling every last corner of his sensation.

_Confess,_ a voice mocked, _let them know what you have done._

He shook his head and was brought to his knees.

* * *

Bahorel first called out Grantaire’s name, who begrudgingly moved to his buddy’s side. Enjolras could almost swear that Grantaire glanced at him before he moved to another team’s space.

"Mock battle," their instructor said, "the first group to capture the flag wins."

They separated then, each carrying a gun holding paintballs. Enjolras laid out the plan to his teammates before heading in the other direction trying to discover the location of the other team’s flag.

He did not go far before someone hit him in the back.

“My fault.” The person muttered an apology, “Apollo?”

Enjolras raised his paintball gun at the silhouette of the other boy. “Move,” he gritted out, his tone carrying a hint of warning. A moment of hesitance rushed over him before he pressed down on the trigger; he pinned it down as guilt. He had attacked Grantaire when he was off guard the last time, and that for some reasons upset him to no end.

Grantaire raised his hands. “Wow, so you are capable of being terrible. I should’ve known.”

Enjolras tapped his fingers on the trigger. “I said move.”

“Gladly.” Grantaire shifted on his spot, seemingly full of intention to run off the next second.

Then— _splash._

Enjolras looked surprisingly down at the front of his shirt, where the color seemed to darken by a few shades. A blunt pain spread through his chest, the impact pushing him north a few yards and slamming him against the adjacent wall, causing his own gun to fly off his hand.

Grantaire was wearing an indiscernible expression as he slowly back away, his green eyes never leaving Enjolras’s paint-stained chest. His steps were hurried as his feet carried him in another direction.

* * *

It took Grantaire a solid hour before he stumbled out of the door to the simulation room, face a sickly placid, looking like he was about to vomit.

The rank for the fear landscape test came out later that afternoon; Grantaire’s name was scratched at the bottom, a despairing gray.

* * *

Enjolras opened an eye to the noise—he had grown used to Grantaire returning late into the dorm, as were the other transfers, and had enjoyed sound sleep for the record of half a month.

He was surprised to see Grantaire lying flat on the ground, his back turned to Enjolras’s bed; his head was cradled in his hands, shoulders twitching.

“Go and sleep somewhere else,” Enjolras heard himself murmur. Hearing the sudden voice, the dark-haired boy started and turned for a split moment, as if frightened.

“Let me sleep here,—until I die.” His reply was little more than muffled humming.

“Grantaire, are you drunk again?”

When the other boy didn’t reply, Enjolras sighed before rolling off the hardwood bed without tugging on his boots. He walked on his tiptoes to the other side of the room, grabbed on the other boy’s arm, and tried to pull him up to stand.

“Enjolras.”

_His name_. Grantaire never called him by his name.

This made Enjolras stop in his track. Grantaire was facing the ceiling, eyes wide open, glimmering green in the darkness. His expression was blank. There was no bottles in sight—that could be, at the same time, extremely good or extremely bad.

“Th-They made me shoot you.”

Enjolras was taken aback by the other boy’s stammer. “B-b-but...” Grantaire was gasping now, as Enjolras crouched down to catch his next words.

“But I won’t. You know I would never, right? Apollo.”

“The fear landscape isn’t real.” Enjolras shushed him, loosening his grip on Grantaire’s arm. He didn’t know if it counted as comforting; but he felt, as usual, that urge to help. “It is only the simulation.”

“I’m sorry, Apollo, I’m so sorry.” There was wetness on Grantaire’s cheeks now, “please don’t go...I never meant to shoot you, I swear, I c-c-could never...”

“Shhh. I’m here.” Enjolras patted his shoulders, clumsily, for the lack of a better reply, “I’m not dead, R, it was just the sim. Shhh.”

Grantaire stammered a few more unintelligible words, then his head fell heavily to the side, and, as is the usual effect of the second period of inebriety, into which his nightmare must have roughly and abruptly thrust him, an instant later he had fallen asleep.

* * *

“I didn’t shoot him...”he cried into the emptiness, “I c-c-could never...”

* * *

It happened all of a sudden. Almost too sudden, if Enjolras hadn’t known Erudite’s plan of it all along. Before he knew it, he was marching in a band of mindless soldiers, their every move frighteningly synchronous.

“A Divergent.” Someone tapped on his shoulder. He looked back, just in time to lock eyes with Inspector Javert, whose gaze was cold as steel.

“We found another one.”

Then, everything went black.

* * *

_“It isn’t real...”_

* * *

When he awoke, Enjolras found his head surprisingly clear. He shook his arms and no restraint sounded—he could move as freely as before.

Almost.

“Go on.” Inspector Javert’s voice reverberated in his head. “Kill that boy in the chair.”

His head lifted slowly, as if moved by force, towards the far off corner in the room. It was stainlessly white, every seam where marble panes met familiar; the Erudite lab.

Grantaire was tied to a chair, a stream of red running down his forehead. His face distorted as he tried to crack a smile. “It’s okay,” he said soundlessly with his lips.

Enjolras tried to shake his head. Tried to resist the force that had taken over his body and mind, controlled his movements, and took away every last bit of evidence of his Divergence.

“Take aim!” Cried Javert. In his right hand, Enjolras felt the coolness of a metal surface, leading to the drooping weight between his gun fingers. His heart leaped into his throat as he scrambled for control, but before he could do anything, something took over his feet and drove him forward—where Grantaire was seated.

The sun was glaring through the window now, carrying a wine-like bitterness into the room. Enjolras watched tiny particles of dust dance in the undulating light waves, grounding his teeth into his bottom lip.

His last conscious thought was of two marvelous pools of green, the light in which undimmed by the daze of alcohol, that spoke volumes with their smiling serenity.

* * *

_“Do you permit it?”_

* * *

“I...” Tears unrestrained skidded down his face. “I killed Grantaire.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this dumpster fire :)  
> kudos & comments are always appreciated <333333


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